


Calm my tears, Kill these fears

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, doctor!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: I somehow always get you as a cashier at Walmart and it's always when I’m buying the weirdest shit at the weirdest time.<br/>“A head of lettuce at 3am?”<br/>"It's a long story” </p><p>Title is from Miracle by Paramore, and makes this sound a lot more angsty than this actually is. (read: not at all)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clarke's POV

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a birthday present for [rockingstydia](http://www.rockingstydia.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Bellamy's POV coming soon!

Clarke hauls the contents of her basket onto the counter, pausing to dig for her wallet in her purse as the cashier scans her purchases, all the while mentally berating herself for putting her grocery shopping off until her cabinets contain nothing but two cans of soup.

“A head of lettuce at 3 am?”

She looks up at him. He’s tan with curly black hair and looks about her age. She might consider him attractive if she weren’t exhausted. And if it weren’t, you know, 3 am.

“It’s a long story,” she sighs, managing a polite smile and a polite response, “To make it short, I’m kind of awful at being an adult.” She’s been living on her own for years now, and she still can’t maintain a regular schedule for grocery shopping.

He lets out a surprised laugh and she realizes belatedly that her sleep-deprived response was less polite than it was strangely up-front. “I know that feeling,” he says as he bags her groceries, “I hope you get a break from whatever it is sometime soon.”

She takes her bags and smiles at him, genuine this time: It’s not every day your Walmart cashier is cheerful and encouraging in the wee hours of the morning.

“Thanks.”

‘Whatever it is’ happens to be endless graveyard shifts at the hospital, and despite his well wishes, it’s not likely to lighten up anytime soon.

 

 

 

The second time she’s at Walmart at 3 am, it’s for art supplies; markers, stickers, colorful paper, washable paint.

She doesn’t remember him until he runs a hand through his hair while helping the customer in front of her. While she waits, she takes note of the details she was too tired to pick up on last time, like the freckles that are concentrated heaviest across the bridge of his nose and kind of gradient out from there. His eyes are dark and expressive, like every miniscule change reveals another layer of genuine emotion. She definitely finds him attractive this time.

He grins when he recognizes her and she can’t deny the warm feeling it breeds in her chest.

Then he glances down at her purchases and back to her, cocks his head a little before asking, “I was going to ask if you were an artist, but these supplies seem a little…sub par for the type of artist I was imagining.”

He’s flirty, and it’s kind of exactly what she needs right now. A reason to smile.

So she puts on her best pompous face because  _what the hell_ , right? “It’s actually for a materials study,” she says flippantly, “You know, use kids’ supplies to make something very complex and avant garde.”

He’s halfway through his response (“Oh shit, really?”) when she cracks a smile, leaving him with wide eyes and a stunned look on his face.

“Cute,” he says after a second, sending her dissolving into laughter. She looks up at him just in time to catch him joining her, wide smile across his face.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says as she recovers, “No, it’s—um, it’s for the kids at the hospital—my patients. We’re having an arts and crafts day tomorrow.”

He nods his head, resumes scanning her items, “Doctor then?” Off her nod, he continues, “That’s better than pretentious artist for sure. Just as intimidating though.”

She’s kind of hoping she’s not imagining the pink tinge across his cheeks.

“Oh and you said it’s for kids right?” he asks before she can respond, “Because I could totally give you an educator’s discount for that.”

“Oh wow, seriously? Yeah that’d be great, thanks!”

She’s basically beaming at him now, and his hand goes to rub at the back of his neck.

“Yeah of course. That must be really rewarding, working with kids?” he aks, taking her credit card.

“It really is, they’re the best patients in the world,” she says, warm smile on her face.

He hands back her card, and she takes it, before sticking her hand out again, “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

If he thinks it’s weird that she’s introducing herself to her cashier, he doesn’t saying anything, just gives her hand a solid shake, and gives  _her_  a charming smile, “Bellamy.”

She collect her bags and gives him a tiny wave as she leaves, feeling unreasonably lighthearted for 3 o’clock in the morning.

 

 

 

The third time she sees him, she’s only there because she can’t go home. Not yet. Not after losing a patient who’d been fighting for so long.

She dumps two tubs of ice cream on the register. If you asked her if she’d chosen his lane on purpose, she’d say she has no memory of it, but she ends up there just the same.

“Hey Clarke!” his voice is bright, but trails off at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes, “How are the—hey, are you alright?”

It’s stupid really, the way his soft voice and concerned expression has her letting out the tears she’d sworn she had contained by now.

Without really understanding how, fifteen minutes later she finds herself curled up in a chair pulled from the tiny Walmart McDonalds that’s tucked behind the registers, Bellamy’s arm around her, rubbing comforting circles into her arm.

She vaguely remembers him murmuring to a coworker before flipping off the light on his check-out lane, leading her over to sit down.

And she vaguely remembers telling him about little Olivia in broken, sob ridden sentences. About how an ill-timed case of the flu paired with her already incredibly fragile immune system had stolen away any hope of recovery for the unfailingly optimistic child.

She tells him that she’s supposed to be stronger than this. That she can’t cry every time she loses a patient.

He takes her hands in his, this virtual stranger, and whispers words that she’ll carry with her for years to come, “Look, Clarke. Caring doesn’t make you weak. It’s when you care about something a lot that you’re at your strongest. And sometimes it backfires and things go wrong, but think about how many times it goes  _right._  How many kids’ lives you’ve saved  _because_ you care so much.”

She doesn’t have proper words to respond to that, so she just nods blearily and rests her head on his shoulder.

When she’s feels well enough to drive home, he programs his number into her phone and makes her promise that she’ll call him, or  _anyone_  really, next time something like this happens. She doesn’t really know how to respond, so she just throws her arms around his neck before she starts to feel embarrassed for what a mess she’s been.

 

 

 

**Friday 2:35 PM - Unknown number:**

_So, umm, not an emergency, I just wanted to say thanks and sorry for last night._

**2:36 PM - Unknown number:**

_Oh, this is Clarke by the way._

**2:40 PM - Bellamy:**

_Kind of figured. :) You’re welcome, and there’s really nothing to be sorry for._

**2:45 PM - Clarke:**

_Yeah, like I didn’t literally pull you away from your job. You’re not going to get in trouble for that are you?_

**2:49 PM - Bellamy:**

_Course not, it’s so dead in there at that time that it literally didn’t matter. No one even noticed I was gone._

**2:52 PM - Clarke:**

_If you say so. Thank you, again. It really helped._

**2:55 PM - Bellamy:**

_You’re more than welcome._

 

 

 

The next time she goes to Walmart its 4 o’clock in the afternoon and she doesn’t need to buy anything.

She feels dumb looking for his messy hair at the row of registers, but she does it anyway. When he’s not there, she takes to wandering the aisles, hope rapidly deteriorating.

To her surprise, she does find him eventually, shelving lego kits in the toy section.

He grins when he sees her. “Hey.”

She grins back, despite the nervousness gnawing at her stomach, “Hi. I’m um…I just wanted to ask you something.”

“You do know you have my number now right?”

“I know, I know, I just…I figured I’d leave it up to fate. Which sounds really dumb now that I say it. But, if you were here, I’d ask. And if not, then maybe it just wasn’t meant to happen.”

He doesn’t comment on her dubious decision making strategies, just raises an expectant eyebrow.

She takes a deep breath, “You want to go out sometime?”

He considers for a second, smirk at the corner of his lips. “You’re right.”

“What?”

“That  _is_  pretty dumb—were you really not going to ask me if I wasn’t here at this exact time?”

A grin grows on her face, “I did tell you I was an awful adult the first time we met. I’m pretty sure poor romantic choices falls under that umbrella.”

“Right, right.” A sort of distracted frown forms on his face, “Listen, I need to go talk to my manager real quick, can you finish this up for me?”

Her eyes flick down to the mess of boxes on the floor then back to him, mind grasping desperately at why he would be asking her to…just… _what?_

He only makes her suffer a few seconds, cracking a smile.

“Kidding, Miss  _avant garde_.”

She glares for a second but damn if his smile isn’t infectious. “You…I…alright, okay,” she finally manages, “I see how it is.” And yeah, it’s only fair.

“Oh, and yes, by the way,” he says when he’s done teasing her.

“Hmm?”

“Yes, I’d like to go out with you.”

Her heart skips a beat, “Oh. Cool. Even though I literally fell apart on you the third time I met you?”

“Maybe especially because of that. Although I’m not sure why you want to lower yourself to dating a Walmart employee.”

“I wouldn’t be so surprised,” she says, stepping forward to pull the box from his hands and place it on the shelf, “I hear they provide excellent emotional support and a literal shoulder to cry on.”

He laughs, and it’s a really good sound. He’s still laughing when he leans down to press a quick kiss her cheek, and it’s even better.

“Cool, I get off at seven?”

“Seven is perfect.”


	2. Bellamy's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy is kind of a flustered asshole. 
> 
> (This is kind of messy and the characters aren’t necessary fleshed out, but I hope it’s still enjoyable.)

Bellamy has acquired a problem in the form of the pretty blonde girl who keeps showing up at his register at 3 am. She’s all disheveled hair and clothes, and makeup that’s definitely not as fresh as it was at one point, and somehow it totally works for him

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it’s less of a problem than a pathetic crush.

The second time she’s there she takes him by surprise with an apparent affinity for teasing, and he really does believe, for a split second, that she’s some high-up, pretentious artist. Then he finds out that she’s a doctor, which is really no less intimidating.

(She works with kids and he’s so far gone already.)

 

 

 

It’s stupid, and he feels like an idiot, but the chance that she’ll show up has him actually  _smiling_  as he pulls on his godawful blue vest before night shifts.

(He doesn’t hate working there. It pays the bills, and O’s tuition, but he does wish, a little, that he worked somewhere a little nicer. Especially when the girl he’s got a schoolboy crush on is a freaking  _doctor._ )

 

 

 

The next time he sees her, it’s late, as usual, and he looks up as two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s half-baked ice cream are dumped onto the register. As soon as he gets a glimpse of her hair, he knows it’s her, even if her head is down.

He can’t help smiling, and his heart might be beating a little faster, “Hey Clarke! How are the—”

When she looks up and her eyes are puffy and red and he’s pretty sure there might still be tears lingering in them.

“Hey,” he says softly, “Are you alright?”

A sob chokes out of her and it must evoke some visceral reaction in him because he’s around the counter, a tentative at her back, before he can register what he’s doing.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, are you okay?”

When she doesn’t respond, he prompts her again, a little desperate, “Clarke, talk to me. Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?”

She shakes her head, tears clinging to her lashes. “No, I’m,” she takes a breath, visibly steels herself, but the anguish hasn’t left her voice, “I’m fine…technically…? I lost a patient and I just, can’t go home right now, not yet.” She sniffs, and waves a hand like she’s clearing her head, “Sorry, I’ll just…”

“Hold just a second, okay?” he says, cutting her off. ‘Cause yeah, he’s not letting her off on her own in the state she’s in.

He flags Monroe down at the next register over, and tells her he’s taking his break early. She just shrugs and he casts her a grateful smile.

He leads Clarke over to sit down, pulling a couple chairs from the in-store fast food place, not really sure what his plan is; He doesn’t know her, not really. And he doesn’t want to overstep and ask about personal information when he’s not welcome to it.

So he just settles for a tentative, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She does. She tells him about the little girl who passed away after fighting for so long. And because he remembers being worried over Octavia every time she was sick growing up, he’s close to tears by the time she’s done, too. He remembers having to learn that some things are out of his control— remembers learning the hard way that blaming himself wouldn’t solve anything.

He tries to tell her as much, that she can’t blame herself, and that she can’t let herself get knocked down by this. Tries to make her see how much of a  _goddamn hero_  she is for saving kids’ lives every day.

It must work, he thinks, because she throws her arms around him before she leaves, and lets him program his number into her phone in case she needs to talk again.

(He doesn’t  _hope_  that she’ll need to talk again. That would be awful.)

 

 

 

She texts him the next day and it’s pretty awesome, except for the fact that he thinks she might be too embarrassed to come back.

She does though, and he finds out that she also looks incredible when she’s  _not_ exhausted after a long day of work.

He’s shelving in the toys aisle when she finds him, and its midday, so he almost thinks he’s just imagining her. She’s wearing this floaty blue dress and if he thought she was beautiful before, she must be ethereal now.

“Hey,” he says, inarticulately.

She smiles a little nervously and it’s adorable. “Hi. I’m um…” she starts, “I just wanted to ask you something.”

The fact that she’s come by just to talk to him is doing good things for his ego, and because he’s kind of an asshole, he puts on his best smirk, “You do know you have my number now right?”

She fidgets with her purse and he feels a little bad.

“I know, I know, I just…I figured I’d leave it up to fate. Which sounds really dumb now that I say it. But, if you were here, I’d ask. And if not, then maybe it just wasn’t meant to happen.”

The implication of that statement hits him, leaving in more than a little disbelief. Because she’s a  _fucking gorgeous doctor_ , for god sakes.

He doesn’t answer—doesn’t really trust himself with words—and just raises an eyebrow.

She takes a deep breath, “You want to go out sometime?”

He does a good job of hiding his grin. “You’re right.”

“What?”

“That  _is_  pretty dumb—were you really not going to ask me if I wasn’t here at this exact time?” The teasing in his voice is obvious and he’s pretty sure there’s a huge smile on his face.

A grin grows on hers. “I did tell you I was an awful adult the first time we met. I’m pretty sure poor romantic choices falls under that umbrella.”

He gets a stupid idea then. He deserves some payback doesn’t he?

“Right, right.” He plasters a distracted expression on his face, “Listen, I need to go talk to my manager real quick, can you finish this up for me? I’ll be right back.” He gestures down at the mess at his feet.

He does feel a  _little_ guilty as he watches the confusion cross her face.

“Kidding, Miss  _avant garde_.”

He makes it up to her by telling her that, yes, he’d really like to go out with her.

“Oh. Cool. Even though I literally fell apart on you the third time I met you?”

“Maybe especially because of that,” he responds honestly. He’s pretty sure she’s the strongest person he knows, and he’s only known her for a week. “Although I’m not sure why you want to lower yourself to dating a Walmart employee.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says as she steps forward. She pulls the box from his arms to place on the shelf and suddenly he’s realizing how close she is. “I hear they provide excellent emotional support and a literal shoulder to cry on.”

He laughs, and because he can’t really help himself, he leans down to press his lips to her cheek.

“Cool, I get off at seven?”

“Seven is perfect.”

 

 

 

Octavia makes fun of him in no less than 5 text messages, when he informs her about his date on his break.

 

 

 

Clarke’s actually waiting for him outside when he walks out at seven.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

She just grins, rolls her eyes as she knocks her shoulder into his. “Dork.”

He smiles back, pretty happy with how his life is going at the moment.

“So,” she claps her hands together, “How do you feel about pizza and roller skating?” She stops for a second to frown, “Wow, that really didn’t sound nearly as much like a middle school date in my head.”

He waves it off, “You can’t be held accountable. You spend all day with kids, your judgement is bound to be a little skewed.”

She laughs, “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

“Yeah, you probably won’t even hold my hand ‘til like, the fifth date.” He realizes belatedly that that’s a little presumptuous, feeling the blood rush to his face as he tries to backpedal, “That is, um, if you don’t decide you’re tired of me after the first one. Or like, after this conversation.”

She doesn’t seem phased. “I get something else from the kids, you know.” Her words are matter-of-fact.

“What’s that?”

She takes a step closer to him, slow smile on her face. “Boundless optimism.”

He swallows. “Really.”

Her hand slips into his, fingers intertwining and she raises her eyebrows a little, like a challenge. “Yeah. And I’ve got a good feeling about you.”

He’s about to respond—something nonchalant like, “Do you now?”—but her lips are pressed against his, and his hand, the one not claimed by hers, is going to cradle the back of her neck, pulling her closer. When her other hand twines into his hair, it takes everything he has not to let out a satisfied groan.

 

 

 

It turns out that pizza and roller skating is a lot less childish when you get distracted kissing your date every few minutes.

(They make it to many more than five dates.)

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


End file.
